


Do They Have Candy Hearts in Hell?

by callmelyss



Series: Huccubus [2]
Category: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Demons, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anal Sex, Attempt at Humor, Blindfolds, Crack Treated Seriously, Demon Armitage Hux, Fluff and Smut, Hand Feeding, Huccubus, M/M, Romance, Slice of Life, Valentine's Day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-15
Updated: 2019-02-15
Packaged: 2019-10-29 04:29:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,181
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17801057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/callmelyss/pseuds/callmelyss
Summary: The mini-mart isn’t only busy; it’s surprisinglycolorful. A pyramid of glossy red cardboard candy boxes, almost as tall as he is, stands to his right. Down an aisle, an array of cheap hothouse roses are slowly wilting under the fluorescents. In another corner, a cluster of half-deflated balloons declaringHappy Valentine’s Daybobble drunkenly.Right. February 14th.—Hux familiarizes himself with an unusual human custom.





	Do They Have Candy Hearts in Hell?

**Author's Note:**

> A little extra Huccubus for the holiday. Written with particular love for the completely brilliant headcanon crew on Twitter. You know who you are.
> 
> FYI, the hand-feeding is very minor, just a couple chocolate-covered strawberries exchanged between the two of them.

“Hey. Um.” Kylo hovers in the doorway, hands braced on the frame. “I need you to leave.”

“Mm, sure thing, love,” Hux replies without looking up from his phone. He’s halfway through crafting a truly scathing rejoinder to 4ugust1n30fh1pp0, who, in addition to having appalling taste in usernames, had the audacity to post their taxonomy of evil to his favorite half-wit hunting grounds: r/medievaldemonology. Now that he’s about finished savagely dismantling the facile and circular nature of 4ugst1n3’s logic, he’ll start in on their elementary prose— “Wait. Pardon. What did you say?”

“I, uh, need you to leave?” Kylo repeats. Face and voice quite grave, even for him. His eyebrows pinch together in apprehension. There’s a kind of anxious quiver to his energy, too, spiking here and there when it’s usually calmer. Or has been. 

“Oh.” Hux curls his tail around himself, instinctive, an old habit, and tries to keep from sounding wounded. Kylo has never asked him to leave before, not since inviting him back here from the mini-mart almost four months ago. Not once during any of their domestics spats. Not even when Hux summoned a small—practically negligible, minuscule, really, only a few dozen—plague of frogs and toads. (He had good reason. One simply cannot allow _Exorcist_ jokes to go unpunished, even from one’s very favorite human.) “Is something the matter?”

And he doesn’t think anything is, unless he hasn’t said. It’s been mostly quiet since the incident with Snoke; the two of them fell into a rhythm after that, looking after each other, easing lingering fears and nightmares, making it through the bad days together (because there are always bad days, he understands, however much one tries). But Kylo’s kept to his routine, his job and doctor’s appointments and his daily runs in the park, and they’ve both kept to the rest of it. Had a rather good shag this morning while Kylo was still all sweaty and delicious, in fact.

“What?” He startles, then takes in Hux’s expression. “No—I didn’t mean—everything’s fine. Just for an hour or two, Hux, that’s all. Would you mind?”

“An hour or two?” Hux echoes, more curious than hurt now. Not to mention aghast ( _two hours? outside?_ ). “Whatever for?”

Kylo sighs. “I can’t tell you.” He holds up both hands, appeasing. “Everything's okay, I promise. I just—trust me, okay? Please?”

Hux scowls or he means to scowl, his very best demon glower. (It’s certainly not a pout. Demons do not pout.) Bumps his spectacles back up his nose with one finger. “I _suppose_ I can give you the flat to yourself for whatever clandestine activity you have planned, since I’m apparently _so unworthy_ of your confidence,” he sniffs, laying it on very thick, mostly because he can. Unfolds from his spot on the sofa, his tail uncoiling, and pockets his phone. It has at a full charge at least; then, it nearly always does these days, thanks to Kylo.

They haven’t found the limit of it, the peculiar source of power he’s offered him, although he still does most of his feeding using the conventional method. He’s pleasantly warm from the generous meal this morning, and the memory isn’t half bad either. Sex against a wall is much more enjoyable when it’s a novelty, not a practical necessity, and Kylo was gratifyingly vocal.

Hux likes making him scream. So very much.

For that reason—and, fine, a slew of others, some disturbingly sentimental, he’ll admit—he allows Kylo to gather him close, wrap strong arms around him, and tilt their foreheads together. “Thank you for understanding,” he murmurs before he kisses him, one of those deep, lingering kisses, thoroughly tasting him. _Tootsie Rolls_ , he’d reported earlier, amused; they’re keeping a ledger. 

And Hux doesn’t need to siphon anything, only kisses him back, returning minute ripples of sunny energy to him. _You are happy and healthy_ , he informs Kylo’s immune system sternly, encouraging it to work as well as it can. (It _is_ flu season, after all. And humans are distressingly frail creatures.) 

Kylo pecks him on the nose when they part. “Coat and boots,” he says. Tone fond. “It’s cold outside.”

Hux bites back a grumble and kicks off his slippers, leaving them safely by the couch, and marches sock-footed towards the front hall. Shrugs Kylo’s parka on over his hoodie and pajama pants. Steps into the pair of pale blue galoshes that have appeared, pristine and shiny, next to Kylo’s slush-soggy trainers. 

“Mittens, too,” Kylo calls from the other room. 

“Yes, mum,” Hux mutters. Retrieves them from the hook along with his keys. Not that he’s ever really _needed_ keys, has yet to meet a lock he couldn’t persuade, but he understands the convention and what Kylo intended with the gesture. It means he lives here, that this is his home, and he can come and go as he pleases. 

Never mind that he’d much rather stay in and watch _The People’s Court_.

 

* * *

 

It is indeed cold—as well as gray and overcast and just starting to snow again, as it has on and off again all week. The fat flakes appear pleasant enough as they descend, catch on his clothes and the pink yarn of his mittens, but yesterday’s accumulation has already gone dingy and black and brittle with ice. Hux’s boots crunch on the sidewalk as he makes his way to the mini-mart. 

He has never favored this time of year nor it him, in no small part because of the difficulty he has feeding. In the five years since he parted company with Sloane, winter has always proved to be the greatest struggle. She would tell him (no, not illogically) to head south when the weather keeps people at home or, even better, settle there permanently for the steadier food supply, but he’s never much cared for the coastal party cities and their rowdy nightlifes. There’s a far higher chance of encountering his own kind in such places, too. No, he prefers to remain in this city, which he knows well and where he needn’t worry about running into some sneering, condescending pack of his father’s sort who think they’re Beezlebub’s gift to human- _and_ demon-kind and feed so sloppily and can’t be arsed to adapt to the bloody Information Age. (How can they not know how Tindr works?)

 _Besides, not everyone can demon their way into an Italian villa on the Adriatic coast_ , he had reminded his mentor the last time they spoke.

She smiled. _You could if you wanted to, Armitage._

Not untrue.

The mini-mart is surprisingly busy; Hux takes a moment to confirm that his tail and other demonic features remain properly concealed, checking for the accompanying inter-dimensional prickle. He’d likened it to holding back a sneeze when Kylo asked about it, shifting part of his matter out of the visible realm, although it’s mostly second nature now and not nearly as uncomfortable as when he first learned. It had itched terribly at first, and Brendol had been displeased with his slow progress, among other things.

He wipes melting snowflakes from his spectacles with the hem of his t-shirt. The mini-mart isn’t only busy; it’s surprisingly _colorful_. A pyramid of glossy red cardboard candy boxes, almost as tall as he is, stands to his right. Down an aisle, an array of cheap hothouse roses are slowly wilting under the fluorescents. In another corner, a cluster of half-deflated balloons declaring _Happy Valentine’s Day_ bobble drunkenly.

Right. February 14th.

 _Do you celebrate any holidays?_ Kylo had asked in early December; he was decorating a spindly, foot-tall pine tree with fairy lights and folded paper stars at the time. 

He’d opted not to get into the High Unholy Days and their associated traditions; he doesn’t observe them personally. Déclassé for demons to buy that much into their own mythology, in his view, especially when they are well aware of its legion inaccuracies. Human holidays have always intrigued him, however, if only for the associated rituals, although many of them seem purely arbitrary. What, for example, an obscure third-century Italian priest has to do with romantic love is well beyond him. 

He _had_ rather enjoyed the quiet Christmas he and Kylo spent together, exchanging lumpily wrapped parcels and eating slightly deformed sugar cookies and watching saccharine movies with the sound off. He’d liked tying Kylo up with the leftover ribbons and slowly torturing him for the duration of the afternoon even more.

Yes, Christmas seems a particularly worthwhile human conceit, if celebrated properly.

But Kylo has made no mention of _Valentine’s Day—_ perhaps because he doesn’t favor it? Unlikely that was the reason for his odd behavior earlier; typically when he wants Hux to participate in some frivolous human custom, like wearing shoes or grocery shopping or refraining from hexing godless Blue Philistines, he tells him directly. And he hasn’t been especially reticent about anything since the incident with Snoke. Or so Hux thought. He frowns at the tower of candy. Plucks a box off the top and heads for the cashier. It can’t hurt.

The man gives him the same skeptical look he always does, unimpressed, apparently, by his capitulation to seasonally appropriate foot- and outerwear. “Five dollars and eighty-three cents,” he informs Hux, monotone.

Bills are significantly more difficult to materialize than coins, paper being so much more _slippery_ , molecularly speaking, and the inks are trickier, too. Still, he gets it right after first a five pound, then a fifty rupee note fall from his sleeve. Abraham Lincoln looks stoically up from the countertop. The change clatters out afterward: three quarters, a nickel, three pennies, and a few extras. The clerk scoops them up and sighs, moving them around his palm with two fingers, checking. He holds up one. “Is this Swiss?”

Hux shrugs. Pockets the chocolates. “Possibly. A new addition to your collection.” He doesn’t wait for the man’s response—he never does.

 

* * *

 

Outside, he sighs at his phone; so far, this excursion has taken up a whopping sixteen minutes. He could trudge to a coffee shop or the library; at least he would be warm and have internet access. Before he can move in that direction, however, a flash of color catches his eye from across the street.

A child. 

Hux glances one way down the sidewalk and then the other; there’s no one else in sight, just the two of them. They’re small, probably no more than six, wearing a purple coat and a knit hat with a white pompom sparkling on top—dressed to go out, yes, but much too young to be unaccompanied, especially out in the snow. He considers his phone again. Glances back at the mini-mart. Heaves out another clouded breath before picking his way across the street, avoiding a wide patch of ice. “Er, hello,” he says. “Is your—adult-type human in the store there?”

They consider the question, then shake their head; a pair of wide brown eyes regard him from under a black fringe. Not frightened. At least, he thinks, not of him.

“Somewhere else on the block, then?”

Another no.

Hux purses his lips. That’s—well, not especially good. He steels himself for the awful, unavoidable question: “Are you lost?”

There’s another pause as they think it over, then a nod. Followed by what is unmistakably a distinct lip wobble. Their eyes fill.

 _Oh,_ _Lilith’s_ tits, _please_ _don’t cry._

“Okay, okay,” he says, hurried. “That’s fine. We get lost sometimes; it happens. Even grown-ups. More than you’d think, to be honest, even if we don’t admit it. We’re liars all."

To his immense relief, the lip wobble decreases in its oscillations. The child inhales with a loud, wet snuffle. 

“Right.” Hux bites his own lip. “In my experience, getting un-lost is often a matter of retracing one’s steps. Do you recall, by chance, in which direction you were walking?”

They hesitate, then point up the street, towards the city center.

“So you came from that way?” He indicates the direction of the park and Kylo’s apartment building; there are several others in the vicinity.

Another nod.

“Splendid.” He manages a smile and hopes that it’s reassuring and not unsettling. “Would you, ah. Like me to walk with you? I’m Hux, by the way.” He extends one mittened hand, although he’s relatively certain one isn’t supposed to touch unfamiliar children. But they take it and move it up and down before turning to head down the street, hopefully in the direction of home. Leading him by the hand.

 

* * *

 

There’s an art, Hux decides, to walking with a young child. He’s never had to shorten his stride this way before or keep track of someone so far below eye level. He possesses a vague memory of trying and failing to match his father’s pace when he was small. An even vaguer one—maybe only a dream he’s had, in truth—of a woman walking with him like this more patiently, his fist curled snuggly in hers. 

The child in the purple coat, who still hasn’t offered their name or, in fact, spoken at all, doesn’t dawdle, not the way he’s seen youngsters of similar age do with their parents in public, sometimes letting gravity claim them entirely, perhaps because the ground’s so enticingly near. Rather, this child soldiers on with a sense of purpose, stopping only to assess if they’re still moving in the right direction, pausing at intersections to stare at their surroundings.

“Does anything look familiar?” Hux asks them. “The park, maybe?” He gestures at the hill and the clustered trees and the abandoned playground, all of it covered in a thickening layer of white, marred here and there by footprints, the tracks from sled runners, a few tattered snow angels. 

They nod, hesitant, frowning, and then walk on resolutely. Not a favored spot then.

He has decidedly mixed feelings about this park himself—not unreasonably, he’d argue, given that that’s where he nearly de-corporealized and Kylo almost lost his autonomy to some wrinkled, dusty, distressingly predictable megalomaniac of a bodysnatcher. A harrowing night for both of them, even if he’ll never _quite_ forget being brought back into existence by Kylo’s determination and affection and just the right amount of heavy petting. 

Noting the wary glance the child gives the playground, Hux offers them another tentative smile. “Big kids can be such utter pricks, can’t they?”

That earns him a smile and what might be a giggle in return.

Hux coughs. “Ah, but don’t repeat that particular phrase to anyone, probably.” 

They pass several of the apartment complexes, including Kylo’s, and he’s beginning to despair that they’re not going in the right direction after all. The clouds are gathering darkly overhead; the snow is falling more heavily. The child shivers by his side. “Hang on a moment,” Hux says, stopping them, and pries off one of his mittens. His own teeth are chattering quietly, making it difficult to concentrate—he takes a deep, frosty breath, pictures what he needs the way Sloane taught him and _reaches_ into the ether. Despite the chill, he succeeds in producing a long, purple wool scarf from his coat pocket. “Here.” He’s careful as he loops it around their neck, tying the ends loosely together. If he has occasion to brush their cheek just enough to send a small wave of warmth into them, well, that’s an added benefit.

Finally, just as he’s about to give up hope and look up the number for Child Services, they come to a stop in front of a building, a drab, concrete monument to the seventies. The kid’s staring up at it with open relief, however, and they nod enthusiastically when he asks, “Is this it?” Their expression only falters after he adds, “Do you have a key?”

“Not to worry,” Hux says as they approach the front door. It uses an old-fashioned sort of lock, like most buildings in this part of town. He focuses on it as he touches the handle, picturing the arrangement of pins in the cylinder, telling them, as convincingly as he can, that the key is there, pushing them into place. It swings open in his hand. “Looks like someone didn’t close this properly,” he suggests brightly. Painting a smile over the fatigue that’s starting to settle in. “Lucky, aren’t we?”

They climb six flights of stairs before the child pulls him down a narrow, dimly lit hallway, the overhead’s yellow bulbs flickering weakly. He doesn’t know what to expect when he knocks on the door to which they’ve led him. 

Minutes pass; Hux is about to sigh and suggest no one is home when at last it opens a few inches. The woman standing behind it is huffing heavily; her eyes are wide. From the white hair and wrinkles, she's his charge’s grandmother at a guess. Catching sight of them, she exclaims softly and shuts the door to undo the chain, opening it again and ushering the child inside. She chatters in a language he doesn’t recognize, but then _where have you been, I was so worried_ never requires much translation, even to him. The child endures these attentions, the hands on their cheeks, feeling how cold they are. Hux shifts his weight while it goes on, wondering if he might sneak away—he _would_  like to go home now.

The movement catches the woman’s eye. “Wait,” she says. Rattles off some instruction at the child, who dashes back into the flat. “Thank you.”

Hux shakes his head. “It was no trouble.” He studies the woman’s face. He can’t read her thoughts, not without touching her, but he can look more deeply at her cells, the ravages of illness, age, sorrow written there. 

Before he can say more, the child returns with a bundle: a dishtowel wrapped around a loaf of some kind. It’s warm in his hands and smells of cinnamon, sugar, cardamom. “Truly, I don’t need—“

“Thank you,” the woman interrupts and reaches out to squeeze his wrist. “For your help.”

It’ll cost him to lend her a spark of energy, and that only to small effect. He can’t undo what’s amiss, any more than he can convince Kylo’s brain to properly produce its neurotransmitters. _Pointless to try_ , his father would say. _There are limitations_ , _by necessity_ —Sloane taught him that. But in the brief moment of contact when the woman touches him, he gives her what he can anyway, even if it’s futile, even if it makes him sway slightly in his boots. “My pleasure.” He offers a wave and one last smile to the child, who’s peering out from around her hip. “And you stay closer to home, understand?”

“I like your tail,” they say, just before their grandmother shuts the door. “It’s pretty.”

 

* * *

 

The walk home feels longer and colder than it ought to, given the distance, and he’s outright shaking, Kylo’s coat pulled tightly around him, by the time he makes it to their building. The key rattles in the lock when he opens the door. He slouches in the foyer, peeling off his wet things. He would snog a garrulous internet pedant for a hot beverage right about now.

“Hey,” Kylo says, coming into the hall. “You were gone longer than I expected. Everything okay?”

“Fine,” Hux tells him, although he knows he looks miserable, hair bedraggled, spectacles foggy, nose red. He sinks gratefully into that warm embrace, soaking up everything Kylo’s sharing with him, comfort and sustenance and affection, all given without reservation. He curls his tail around him, tugging him close, and leans against him, sighing. “Minor detour.” He doesn’t want to go into the details just yet. Still unsettled.

“I’m sorry for kicking you out,” Kylo murmurs against his temple, then kisses it. And his ear, too. “I wasn’t sure how to do it with you here. Unless I locked you in the bathroom. And I could imagine how that would go.”

“Like you could lock me in anywhere,” Hux snorts, then pulls back to frown at him. “Do what?”

“See for yourself.” 

He stumbles to a halt when he enters the living room—usually a pleasant space, worn, yes, but cozy—strung with paper hearts and twinkling lights. Kylo’s shoved the coffee table to one side and spread out a checkered tablecloth over the carpet. A picnic basket sits on one corner of it, a promising-looking thermos and two mugs on the other; a small pile of red-wrapped gifts is stacked under the television; flower petals trail down the hall to the bedroom. He remembers, belatedly, to close his mouth, molars clicking as he does.

And he hadn’t thought. This.

He’s always liked words, all sorts. The patter and sound of them, shades of meaning, etymology. They have been weapons and shields when he’s needed them. Misdirection, if necessary. Demon wiles are secondary to the art of persuasion to his mind. And he’s never especially lacked for them, usually knows what to say—or he figures it out once he gets going. Right now, however, he can only produce two hushed syllables: “Kylo.”

“Do you like it?” he asks. That same serious expression from before, and _nervous_ , that’s what it is. He hadn’t realized. “I know it’s corny, and the holiday’s a big commercial scam, but—“

There are certain humans, he’s long wanted to explain to his fellow sex demons (especially his father), who, if you leap, they will catch you, without fail. Kylo Ren is one such person. So it’s nothing at all, really, to jump into his arms right now, to kiss him as hard as he can, so much so that it knocks his spectacles askew. Kylo will catch him, hold him, kiss him back as enthusiastically. Fix his frames for him. Does.

“Right,” he says, breathless. “I guess that means you like it.”

“Very much,” Hux confirms, kissing him again softly, before he unravels himself. “We’re having a picnic?”

Kylo sinks onto the blanket, crossing his legs, and invites him to sit. “Uh, yeah. I know it’s the middle of winter, but I’ve been wanting to. We used to, you know, when I was a kid. I still have good memories—of that.”

Neither of them is ever especially eager to talk about their childhoods, Kylo’s forever overshadowed by Snoke’s arrival in his life, Hux’s by Brendol’s. He reaches over to squeeze his hand. “I don’t believe I’ve ever been on a picnic.”

He squeezes back. “Well, since you’re unfamiliar, usually they’re outdoors. Breezes, sunshine, stuff like that.”

He thinks of the open air, other people, _wildlife._ Wrinkles his nose. “I prefer this.” 

“I thought you might.” Kylo smiles and nudges him with one elbow. “Are all demons recluses?”

“ _All demons_ ,” Hux huffs, aware he’s being baited. Not especially minding. “As you well know, I’m atypical for my kind. And I’m not a recluse; I simply don’t understand your fetish for _nature_.”  

“So no outdoor sex? Ever?” Kylo laments. Or—it’s probably an affectation, even given the lower lip and the puppy eyes. He reaches into the picnic basket, retrieving a container of chocolate-covered strawberries, some sort of pastry covered in powdered sugar, and grapes.

“I didn’t say that,” Hux says. Allowances must always be made for sex, especially consistently brilliant sex. “But wait. I have contributions. Small ones, mind you.” He goes to retrieve the (now somewhat dented) box of chocolates and loaf from his coat pockets. Plops down next to Kylo again. “Here. Ah. Happy Valentine’s Day, pet. His possibly apocryphal beheading was truly the height of romance.”

He raises both eyebrows. “You bought candy?”

“Just from the corner store. I didn’t know you were going to go to all this trouble,” he explains and bites his lip. He could have done something grander if he’d known. Would have. Maybe with lingerie. Or handcuffs. “If you don’t like those, I could try and summon some others.” Although he’s still rather knackered.

“No, that’s not what I meant—it’s really nice, Hux, thank you.” He leans over to kiss his cheek. It should be inconsequential, the boost that gives him, but it isn’t. Has always been more than that, more than just energy. Kylo unwraps the dishtowel. “And where’d this come from? Not a bakery.” 

True, the loaf is unmistakably homemade, dense and dark brown and dotted with dried fruit. He clears his throat. “Sort of a funny story that.”

Kylo listens, attentive, pouring them both some hot chocolate, as he relates the afternoon’s events, the child lost and alone in the snow and the elderly woman in the flat. “And the kid—they could see your tail?”

“Yes.” Hux takes a sip from his mug and sighs. “It’s not uncommon; children have more natural sensitivity than adults. I suppose it’s possible this one is like you, however.” Although _like Kylo_ is still an infuriatingly vague designation. He has no firm notion of what makes a human more susceptible to demonic influence or more aware of the preternatural or if there’s always a correlation. Whether either is _causation_. And it’s difficult to study it without a control group or other subjects. Or an EEG machine. Or a dozen other things.

He hums, thoughtful. “But not like you?”

“A baby succubus?” he muses. “I would have noticed. _You_ would have noticed. We’re not especially adept at camouflage in our early years, as I've said.” Fortunate, really, that conception is uncommon. Impossible in his case, and thank Naamah. “No, they were human enough, I think.”  

“But it bothers you.” Kylo leans over to caress his cheek, his expression sympathetic. 

Hux startles. He sometimes forgets, even now, how perceptive he is, the attention he pays, especially to him. It was—is—one of the things that sets him apart, this human of his. “Not because of that,” he explains. “Just the circumstances. I couldn’t do anything for them. Not really.” 

And he’s happy with his choices, being how he is. Wouldn’t change it. But there are limitations. Attendant frustrations.

That night at the park, if he'd failed.

A beat passes, and then he’s being gently dragged into Kylo’s lap, mug of steaming liquid and all. He squawks, trying to keep it from sloshing over the side. Doesn’t altogether mind being cradled against Kylo’s chest, however. Isn’t entirely unaffected by being hauled around like he weighs nothing either (even though he is _not_ a lead noodle). He snuggles closer.

“You’re a very good demon, you know,” Kylo says into his hair, kissing one horn, then the other.

Hux twitches his tail at the compliment; that precise validation is one of his favorites. Nonetheless. “I think you’ll find this proves I’m an altogether defective one,” he replies airily as he can, although his voice catches on some unidentifiable obstruction. He burrows his nose into Kylo’s sweater and breathes in deeply: soap and wool and _him_. And something else. He inhales again, harder. “Are you wearing cologne?” He’s impressed.

“Maybe,” he allows, not letting him go. “It’s Valentine’s. Now. Food or presents?”

Both are equally frivolous, and he likes them all the better for it. “Hm. Presents. Although I haven’t gotten you anything, apart from the candy. You might’ve told me,” he complains and nips at Kylo’s throat, chiding.

“They’re nothing much. Besides, how often do I get to surprise you?”

 _You surprise me constantly_ , he wants to say. _Since the very first night_. _Don’t you know?_ But he doesn’t. That was the only thing Snoke had the right of, much as the bastard had twisted it and tried to corrupt it: Kylo is _singular_. And hasn’t the faintest idea, somehow.

He exchanges his mug for a parcel wrapped in shiny paper. Hux shakes it gently, listening to the contents shift. Prior to Christmas, when Kylo gave him his mittens and a copy of _Don't Pee On My Leg and Tell Me It's Raining_ , he had only ever received two gifts—and both were footwear. He rather likes them, _presents_ , he’s decided. Not the objects necessarily but what they signify. He neatly peels off the tape and unfolds the wrapping, savoring the process. It’s a small, white box, the kind from a jewelry store. He quirks an eyebrow before lifting off the lid, then scowls. “I imagine you think you’re terribly clever.” 

“Yes. Yes, I do." Kylo fastens the charm bracelet, dangling with pointed devil horns (much sharper than his own), a pitchfork, and a cartoonish red-and-orange flame, around his wrist and admires it. "It suits you.”

Next: a shoebox of secondhand electronics, which he rifles through, much more excited. A Sony walkman. An old Nokia flip phone. A TI-83 graphing calculator. He successfully refrains from starting to take them apart right this minute, although he looks longingly at them as Kylo hands him the third and final box.

He can’t withhold a laugh when he unwraps it: a pair of pink short shorts with the word s _uccubus_ emblazoned across the back in white script. “You’ll be wanting me to model these for you later, I take it.” He sits up to kiss Kylo, languid, licking into his mouth and wriggling suggestively in his lap.

“Should you feel so inclined,” he says. Grabs his arse, encouraging him. “Do you like them?”

“I like all of it, thank you.” He runs his hands down his chest. “And all of this.”

“That’s yours, too.”

“Lucky me. Do tell: are picnics permitted in bedrooms?” Hux inquires, kissing down his neck. “Perhaps I could feed you some of those strawberries? And a few other things?”

“Yes _.”_

 

* * *

 

The bed, like the hallway, is scattered with flower petals, and they shift when Kylo deposits him on the mattress and the picnic basket after him. Hux pushes him flat and straddles him, sliding both hands under his sweater, impatient despite their fun this morning. That seems quite long ago just now.

But, to his surprise, he tugs his hands free. Kisses one, then the other. “I had an idea about this. If it’s okay.”

He blinks. Kylo wasn’t inexperienced when they met—less experienced than Hux, true, but that’s a poor measure—and isn’t shy about voicing his wants when they’re together, but he’s never _proposed_ anything before. Not like this. Usually, he lets him take the lead, regardless of position, act, accoutrements, etc. Hux sits up, attentive, waiting. More than a bit curious.

He doesn’t know what he expects, but it isn’t a strip of satiny fabric. “A blindfold?” he asks. “For you or me?”

“You,” Kylo says. “Unless you mind.”

He considers this. No question that he trusts him. He’s intrigued, too, by the possibility. It’s unusual for anything to be _new_ in this particular arena, but this could be. He enjoys experiments. “No, I don’t mind.” 

Hux lets him divest him of his hoodie, then the t-shirt under it, leaving the pajama bottoms for now. He vanishes his specs so that Kylo can secure the blindfold.

“It’s not too tight?”

“Mm, no.” He could, if he wanted, extend his extrasensory awareness to compensate. But that would be cheating. And there’s no need for it. He’s safe.

“You can lie down if you want.”

Hux feels around with one hand, feeling somewhat unanchored, disoriented. “Where are you?”

Kylo grabs it. “Right here.” 

He scoots over carefully before arranging himself with his head pillowed on one broad thigh. Turns to nuzzle it, content. Feels him laugh. 

“Comfortable?”

“Quite.”

“Good.”

There’s the lightest tickle of sensation in the palm of his hand, then over his wrist, his inner arm, and upward. “A feather,” he declares. Starting easy, then. 

“Mhm.” Kylo strokes his cheek with it. Traces the line of his neck, down his chest. Circles one nipple, then the other. 

Hux squirms. Laughs at the sensation across his ribs, his belly. He reaches up to touch Kylo’s face, thinking that’s all of it, and receives a kiss on his fingertips in response. Then, that same tickle runs down the length of his tail, sending a jolt through him. His cock jumps. “ _Ah!_ ”

Kylo pets his hair, soothing. “Okay?”

“Yes,” Hux breathes. Shuddering when he draws it back up, from the end to his hip. “ _Fuck_.”

Different textures follow. Something velvety—a length of ribbon, he thinks. What must be the flower petals, quite soft. The slick chill of an ice cube. He shivers. “No candle wax, please,” he requests, panting softly now, knowing that might be next. He doesn’t mind the heat but dislikes the sensation of it drying on his skin.

“No candle wax,” Kylo promises, still stroking his hair. He brings something to his mouth instead, letting whatever it is rest gently against his bottom lip, not forcing it. 

Hux licks it, questioning, finding the exterior cold, coated. One of the strawberries. Hux bites down, flooding his mouth with juice, fruit, chocolate. Chews and swallows before dragging down Kylo for a sloppy kiss, sharing the taste. “I was going to do that, remember?” he chastises when they part.

“You still can. Here.” He deposits one in his hand and closes his fingers around it for him.

He holds it up, waiting, and feels a puff of warm breath before Kylo takes it from his fingers. Then the wet swipe of his tongue as he licks them, draws them into his mouth to suck them clean. Hux holds back a whine.

“Too much?”

He shakes his head. “No, but you _are_ depriving me of a distinctly picturesque view, if memory serves. You have a lovely mouth, you know. It looks _especially_ nice when you put it to good use like this.”

Kylo laughs. “Want it off?” Tugging the blindfold.

“Not just yet. What else did you have in mind?” 

“Hang on.” He shifts him, then, sliding him from his lap, cradling his head as he does, delicately maneuvering him, like he might break.

The mattress shifts as he moves, and dips on either side of him; then a mouth closes over his right nipple, dextrous fingers on his left. Hux moans, loud, luxurious, reveling in it, writhing under him as Kylo works on him, lightly biting and pinching until he’s arching his back and gasping his name, fingers clenching in the sheets. And it is— _more_ , like this, Kylo's tongue and teeth and fingers the fixed points in his universe. Finally: a reprieve and a string of wet kisses down his abdomen. Kylo noses at his bellybutton, the hairs below it. He licks across his right hip, then catches his tail in one hand, stilling it while he drops kisses down its length, too, blowing cool air over it after.

“You absolutely perfect thing,” Hux breathes, shaking now, and drifts one hand over his hair. “Come here.” Finds his sweater. Grabs a handful and drags him close, wrapping both legs around his waist. At last, he tugs the blindfold up, unable to stand it any longer. 

Kylo’s looking down at him, expression openly admiring, eyes tender. “Thank you.”

He snorts. “For what? You’re doing all the work. Have been doing all the work.” He ought to feel badly about that probably and would usually—although it’s a challenge just now with all his nerve-endings so agreeably alight. Then, few people have ever had much consideration for his pleasure before. He didn’t mind, having gotten what he required from them. But that sets Kylo apart, too. “Although you didn’t need to.”

“Hey.” He cradles his face, getting his attention. “Forget necessity. Maybe _I_ like it when _you_ feel good. Have you considered that?”

Hux gives him a dozy smile. “How wise.”

He smiles back. “Well, a very clever demon said that to me once.”

“Hm. I _am_ clever, aren’t I?” he muses, stretching under him.

Kylo stops just sort of kissing him. “And humble.”

“Oh, very.” He closes the scant distance between them.

Hux feels nearly invincible this way, pinned on his back, his hands tangled in that long dark hair, lips bruised, being kissed with an inch of his existence. And not for the power he could take from Kylo if he wanted, although it is prodigious, both lust, recognizable, known, not insignificant, but that other source, too, more than simple wanting, richer than that. He can feel it without extending his awareness, potent and heady and somehow buttery. Maybe infinite, too, dizzy as that makes him. Although it’s not that either. He’s never been greedy for it, whatever feeds him, always taking pride in his efficiency. Has never siphoned more than he needs and doesn’t now, returning the extra. _That_ makes him feel more powerful than anything else Kylo might give him: just kissing for the sake of it. Touching because he can.  

He finally liberates him from his sweater—a crime, really, to cover that magnificent torso at all, ever—enjoying the feeling of his skin under his hands, lightly dragging his nails, then flicking his tail over his back. Delighted to see him tremble in response, how flushed he is, too. “Did you get all hot and bothered playing with me before, pet?” Then, he’s still more than a little riled up himself. 

“You should have seen it,” Kylo murmurs. Kissing his jaw now, his throat. “How beautiful you were like that. I wish you could have.”

“I get to see you now,” Hux reminds him. “More than a fair trade.”

They end the game by mutual agreement, unspoken, not quite rushing as they shed the rest of their clothes, Kylo’s jeans and his own pajama pants, patterned with cupcakes, tossed carelessly aside and the food abandoned. No, it’s not frantic or desperate. Hasn’t been since Snoke. Fast, occasionally. Rough, sometimes, wonderfully so, like this morning. Eager, always. But there’s something else. The assurance of it, of this, that they have it, can have it. All the same, he’s glad they don’t linger too long in getting ready. Keens happily as Kylo pushes into him. (He doesn’t care much one way or the other, fuck or get fucked—all of it fun and useful—but every metaphorical hell, Kylo Ren has _such_ a nice cock.)

“Yes,” Hux sighs, encouraging him as he starts to move, thrusting deep, steady, rocking him up the bed. He doesn’t know if he’ll come; he doesn’t sometimes, although he has more often than not in recent months. But even if he doesn’t, he wants this, the feeling of it. “Oh, fuck, that’s so good, love.”

Kylo moans softly, squeezing his eyes shut, stumbling. “I like it,” he explains, hoarse, a moment later. “When you call me that.”

He wraps his legs around him a little tighter for the admission and curls his arms around his neck, too, hanging on as he increases the pace. Chanting his name, staccato, and “fuck, yes, harder, please, more, more” and then “love, love, love, _”_ when Kylo lifts his knees over his shoulders and fucks him deeper still. His hand is moving over his cock now, too, stroking him, synchronous with his thrusts, and he's gasping encouragement, bringing him towards the brink and then finally, finally over it. 

Hux doesn’t _mean_ to cause a power surge when he comes. Isn’t entirely sure why he does—insufficient data—but it does keep happening. At least the lightbulbs don’t burst this time, only glow bright white before dimming again. Kylo isn’t long in following him, moving more sporadically now, hips twitching as he comes, hot, inside him. 

He presses his face against his shoulder after, holding onto him, murmuring declarations, and Hux doesn’t have to hear them to know what they are.  

 

* * *

 

“I think I quite like human holidays,” he reflects sometime later. They’re sitting in the living room, Kylo only in boxers and him in his new shorts, the thermostat on high, finishing the picnic, eating leftover takeout and the rest of the fruit and chocolate and the spice loaf, which is rather good. Crumbs scattered everywhere, but those are easy enough to dispel. “Far less ritual disembowelment.”

Kylo grimaces and takes a determined bite of his drunken noodles. “You don’t _really._ ”

He hums, noncommittal. “Perhaps we do. Perhaps all the popular culture about demons is accurate. Perhaps my head _can_ spin three hundred and sixty degrees. Perhaps I need only believe in myself and try.” He frowns, as if in concentration.

“Please don’t. I like your head the way it is.”

He won’t, of course—it would give him an awful crick to even attempt it, and he works quite hard to maintain his physical form in the proper order. He swishes his tail over Kylo’s knee, reassuring him that it was only a joke. “As do I. But that wasn’t my point. What I meant to say.” He clears his throat. “Was thank you. For all of this.” _Valentine’s Day_. _Of all things_. _Huh._ “I don’t think anyone’s done anything so nice for me before.” He’s sure they haven’t, in fact. Sloane was an excellent mentor, but hardly the warm and fuzzy type. Brendol doesn’t bear mentioning.

He has most of a memory, a nearly complete one, of a bright yellow kitchen and standing on a stool. Mixing cake batter. A woman with eyes like his, holding the spoon with him. But that’s all there is.

“You’re welcome.” Kylo smiles shyly, even though they’re both half-naked, even though— It’s genuine, however, the way he looks up at him through his hair. Not so different from the night they met when he stammered an invitation to come back here. “It’s. Well. You’ve done a lot for me, you know, these past few months.”

“Blisteringly good orgasms and excellent daytime television commentary, yes, I’m a national treasure,” he agrees.

He shakes his head. “Hux, I’m trying to tell you something. It’s made a difference. It’s changed everything, you being here. Not just because of—” He still doesn’t like to say its name. “All of it.” 

Hux takes in his expression. Yes, serious, as he so often is. He strokes his cheek, thoughtful, marveling. _How odd that you keep finding new ways to make me tell you I love you_. _And somehow I never mind._ “You’ve changed everything for me, too,” he admits. And there would have been a time when he would have hated this, how young he sounds, how fragile, how very un-demonic, but he doesn’t have the capacity to care at the moment.

Home. That’s what the yellow kitchen was, he understands. But that’s what this is, too. His key on the hook and his slippers by the sofa, and this, especially this, curling up next to Kylo, who wraps an arm around him and pulls him close, automatic, easy, like it’s that simple. Like there aren’t always more fears to contend with, dangers one can’t guard against or bad days or shite football officiating. There are those things, of course, and children lost in the snow and ill grandmothers and every other uncertainty. Limitations, always. But there are also picnics on the living room floor and holidays with dubious historical justifications and long, lazy kisses, just for the sake of kissing. 

And so maybe it is that simple—in a way.

**Author's Note:**

> Happy belated Valentine's Day, all, and thank you for reading! <3
> 
> And a special thank you to [jeusus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jeusus/pseuds/jeusus) for pointing out [a particular pair of shorts](https://twitter.com/Techienician/status/1093281917787611137).
> 
> Say hi on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/callmelyss1)


End file.
